Make Me Bleed
by Osidiano
Summary: 1xR, deathfic. Relena reflects on the events of the past six months with regret. Feeling like she has lost everything else, she is tempted to let her depression take the last thing that she has left. Gift for sydney


Disclaimer/Note : I do not own Gundam Wing, or either of the characters used in this story. They belong to the series' creator, whom I also do not own. I am not making any money off of this story. Do not sue me. All original concepts in this story are original (duh), and belong to me. If you steal them, I will kill you. A lot. This story takes place sometime after Endless Waltz, and contains angst, self-mutilation, and suicide. This story was written for sydney as a Christmas present. Merry Christmas, I hope you enjoy it.

**Make Me Bleed**

I'm doing fine now, thank you. Oh, I'm moving on now, don't worry. Yes, I appreciate your concerns. . .

Tired.

I am so tired of lying to them all. . .but would they really listen to the truth? They don't want to hear how I actually feel; they only ask to be polite and for their own, personal reassurance that their lives will continue according to a usual routine. If things are different or don't fit into the everyday conformities of their self-centered little worlds, they get scared. No one _wants_ to be scared like that.

. . .People are so innocent.

They're like children, really, and thinking of them as such would have brought a small smile to my face at any other time. But now. . .now things are different. My routine has broken away from the norm, and I find myself incapable of the sincerity and kindness which I was so well known for. I cannot truly smile, I cannot cry anymore. All I can do is lie.

I. . .I think that this is what it feels like to be dying.

That revelation has gradually lost the terror it once held. I am no longer afraid of the end, I am simply ready for it. I know that I am a child; just another little girl dressing up in Mommy's clothes to play pretend. Only now do I realize that this is true. That this has always been true.

Slowly, I stand from where I landed on the bed; from where I had thrown myself down in a brief lapse of apathy when I came in. I knew what needed to be done. Maybe it was instincts that drove me to my feet again; maybe my body had yet to accept what my mind had already prepared for. All the same, I pulled the dress he gave me off its hangar in the closet, holding it up in front of me. I wanted to wear it just one last time for him.

It was a simple dress, very casual. I used to wear it when we went out on weekends together. It was white, made of light material with short sleeves and a full length skirt that swished and twirled just right whenever I walked. When I wore it, his naturally -- or was it training that had made him like that? -- cold eyes would light up, and he would smile at me; would tell me how beautiful I was before embracing me. I look back on those memories now with fondness and a deep longing. His happiness gave me meaning. He brought me to life.

. . .I miss him, and the way things used to be.

My clothes fall to the floor, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound in the room other than my breathing.

There was no note when he left me, no sweet or sorrowful goodbye. No explanation. One day, our lives were perfect: we were in love, living together at long last. He had proposed to me just the day before, had told me that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. He said he would protect me. From anything, from everything. I remember hearing him say I'd never have to cry again. Of course, I said yes. And the very next day, it was over. It was all over.

In a way, I suppose that it's a little ironic.

. . .There is a hat that goes with this dress. The hat has a wide brim and a pink ribbon tied in a bow at the back. I think I'll wear that, too. He always liked that hat.

He gave me this dress for my birthday one year, had it custom made for me because he wanted it to be perfect. The first time I ever put it on, he cried. He said I looked like an angel, and he fell to his knees before me. I wrapped my arms around him, let him bury his face in the folds of my skirts as I brushed aside his messy brown hair and told him that it was alright. He may have protected me, but I took care of him. He needed me. I used to be so happy back then. . .

But I ruined it for us, didn't I?

I sit down in front of the vanity mirror, wiping idly at my own face, though a part of me knows that my hands alone are not enough to hide the sleepless nights that show their evidence in dark smears of grief beneath my eyes. Could I still look beautiful, if I tried? I think I'd like to be beautiful one last time. . .for him.

It was my fault, that he left. And still, it's hard for me to think about what happened. Half a year has gone by since he. . .since I've been alone. I almost can't bring myself to admit that he didn't just leave. . .

He died, didn't he?

Yes, that is the truth. The horrid, ugly truth of what happened. He died. And it was _all_ my fault. I pushed him to it; practically held the gun to his head myself and pulled the trigger. I should have been more understanding, should have been there for him when he needed me. I. . .I should have been able to stop him.

There are a pair of scissors on the desk by my hand. Perhaps they have an answer to the questions that plague me through these lonely days and colder nights.

Why did it have to happen like that. . .?

He waited for me. That's what made it so horrible. He waited until I opened the bedroom door, until I had looked deep into his eyes, before doing it. The gun was just resting against his temple -- boredly, almost thoughtfully -- when I opened my mouth to ask him what was going on, and I remember how my voice shook with fear. I _knew_ what was next, what was coming. I just didn't want to admit that it was a possibility. That I could lose him forever. . .

But I did.

He shot himself, died instantly. I'm glad that he didn't have to feel any pain.

The scissors are in my hand, but I don't remember picking them up. Or even reaching for them, for that matter. But it _doesn't_ matter. I open them, grip them at the vertex of the blades, forsaking the handles. Vaguely, I wonder if it will hurt for me. . .

Carefully, I lower the tips to my naked wrist. My breath quickens as I apply the pressure, waiting for the steel to bite through my skin and the blood to seep out. But I feel nothing, though I can see the red drip down onto my dress from the wound.

It will stain.

That thought saddens me, and something wet rolls down my cheek. I think I am crying again, and as soon as I have realized it, I am sobbing. But still, I feel nothing.

Why am I crying like this? Why am I not in pain?

. . .The blades dig deeper, drag through my arm towards my elbow as I cry even harder, curling in on myself. This should be hurting me. . .why doesn't it hurt? My god, what is wrong with me, that I can feel nothing even as a sit here, my white dress soaking up the blood from my lacerated artery, staring at the girl in the mirror?

It isn't fair. I should be in pain. I should be feeling _something_, anything. . .

. . .My blurred vision is starting to dim, turn black at the edges. But my tears contort the images anyway, so what difference does it make?

Will he come to me now? Will he protect me? Do I still have to cry, though I feel nothing but longing? . . .I want to see him again so badly. . .

"H. . .Heero. . ."


End file.
